my dear, it's just along the shoreline
by Appointment
Summary: RoseLysander, tragic. Leave a review, pleasepleaseplease. Oneshot. Written for the Suicidal Competition.


my dear, it's just along the shoreline

_roselysander_

* * *

><p>Water rushing, cares finding themselves washed out with the tide. Nothing to think about, nothing to do. Little boys by the sea, so serene, untouched, unharmed. He misses it, <em>sososo<em> much.

He can't cry much more, it worries Mum, Dad, Lorcan – the rest. They worry, a lot. It wasn't good for them to worry. It wasn't like them.

It was the worst when he had fallen unconscious, not of more _regular_causes though – no, profuse bleeding had taken care of it, caused his eyes to close and lull. They worried. They took him to St. Mungo's.

"A Blood-Replenishing Potion should fix him up. We'll keep him a while more, just to keep an eye on him."

The hospital was an antiseptic igloo. When a healer spoke, their breath came out in a flurry, freezing Lysander's face into an expression of complacency. He didn't like them much – as if they understood.

_As fucking if._

"It's fine." he murmured as they smeared some sort of balm over his wrists, cuts sealing, tickling.

His back curved, spine attempting to shove its way through his pale, barely freckled skin. His fingertips befriended the cold surface of his knees, and his pale eyebrows rested above pale blue irises. He wished for the sea to be at his back, salty foam delighting his bones.

His mother and father only stood at the door, not quite sure what to say. It wasn't often that Luna Lovegood hadn't much to say. It wasn't often that Rolf Scamander lacked a diagnosis.

People never asked questions about why his studies slipped away, why he never left the house – for days, weeks sometimes. He never wanted to answer questions, either. He never wanted his tongue to dance through the words '_my girlfriend died, actually_. _I loved her lots.'_ They all knew anyways, it wasn't much of a question. Being in love usually ended horribly – it had only worked out if you had exceptional luck, perhaps a vat of Felix Felicis.

He's at home. Not alone, but alone.

He's a bit confused, a bit dull, a bit bland – though, maybe it isn't him, it's his surroundings. He pours something into a cup. Milk, maybe?

"Lysander, that's spoiled."

"What?"

Lorcan looks over at his twin, and they are speaking two different languages.

"The milk. It's spoiled. Dad kept it, he's experimenting."

"With what?"

"Different kinds of animals, pheromones. That stuff."

"Oh."

Staring into the cup, he counts little islands of congealed beverage. He feels sick. Instead of pouring the milk from the glass and into the water basin of the sink, he gulps it down like hard liquor. He had experience with that, too. The cup drains, and Lorcan's eyes are glued to his, an identical pair of colour. They shared thoughts, and all of a sudden, they can't. It's an odd feeling.

"I don't know you anymore."

"Oh."

"Help me to, Lysander."

He doesn't respond, and the prickling, sour flavour attacks his mouth. He leaves the area, gets sick in the bathroom, and up to his bedroom he goes.

Photographs have not disappeared from the walls, no – Rose Weasley's face still smiles expectantly, shining blue eyes and long red curls, a beautiful hero-born child hand in hand with himself. Or, something like himself. He grins from the walls, his eyes like Lysander's, except they shine a bit brighter; the same height, but his back a bit straighter; and the same smile, though it is not a lie.

"Lysander." a voice comes from a door, his father.

"Yes?"

"You've left Lorcan upset."

"We're not children anymore."

"I would never have guessed, with you two being out of school and everything."

"I don't want to laugh, Dad."

"You should. It makes your mother happy. It makes us all happy."

"I'm not happy."

"If you tried to laugh, maybe you would be."

"I hate this," he stammers, "I hate it. I hate it!"

_Sadly enough, time isn't going to change. _

"I know that."

"You _don't_ know that. _You_ _don't_."

He closes his eyes, and everything that was hidden deep inside, the bottle of which contains it all – it breaks.

Forces them open once more, such a paradox.

"You look at me as if you've never seen anyone cry before."

He wraps his arm around his son, a protecting shield of which every father should carry.

He falls asleep on Rolf's shoulder, and wakes quite late into the night. Blue eyes stare back at him from photographs, and he slips on his shoes. He walks to the sea.

Sand underneath his feet, loopy, never solid, and the ocean rolls in, breaking in his ears. Suddenly, water rushes between his toes, a sensation he's long forgotten, and it's nice. The water grows higher, or he finds himself lower, perhaps. In minutes, it's up to his waist – his shoulders – past his ears. Lysander feels the cold needles of water on his skin for a second, late and early at the same time. He watches his bubbles hurry to the surface, waiting for the last one to pop, waiting to see if he might just swim back up and find himself gasping for air.

He's _never_ lost a game of holding breath with Lorcan though.

Memories act as anchors, keeping his head under the surface, because there's not a single reason why he should come back up. It's been four minutes now, pushing and pressing on his lungs. Five. Six. Less bubbles come up, and he's never been underwater this long before. His hair swirls just above him, a silvery plethora, looking like solid dreams under fractured moonlight. A wave struck, or a current, maybe. It sends him to the slippery floor with cloudy vision. His chest feels tight.

He floats around, a little cliché, like in a Muggle romance novel about mermaids or something.

His eyes close, and poison leaves his body, effortlessly smooth with the water.

Lysander is once again, a little boy by the sea. Serene, untouched, unharmed.

* * *

><p>AN: LysanderRose, and Rose has drowned prior to this story, if you didn't know. That's why he hasn't been in the water for a long time, that's why he misses it. Purleeease leave a review.


End file.
